My level of paralysis meant that I couldn’t push with my diaphragm to cough up the fluid, so it was just sitting there. Assisted coughing means someone pushes on your chest to mimic what your muscles usually do to help clear the lungs.
‘We’re also going to need a tool to suck it out of your lungs,’ Good Doc continued.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What’s that?’
I pictured a thin tube or a face mask, but what they brought in looked like a power drill with a long plastic tube coming off the end. Then they pulled out this other tool, which was only about six inches long, but they had to stick it in my mouth to keep me from swallowing my tongue while they sent the plastic drill bit down into my lungs. Then they would suck the fluid out.
I was gagging the whole time they chucked this tube down my throat. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. There was this little Malaysian nurse in the room, who I ended up calling Yoda, because she’d always speak backwards, like, ‘Lungs draining, time it is.’
She sat on top of me while another two nurses held me down. Then I heard this noise as she turned on the drill – the gurgling sound of fluid and mucus being sucked out. Aimee and Sparkesy were just outside the door, looking in. They had been asked to leave while the procedure was being done. I must have been making a terrible combination of gagging and moaning sounds. I looked at Aimee and Sparkesy, and they broke down. My eyes were popping out of my head as I let out nightmarish moans, trying to fight.
I thought, Holy shit! How am I going to get through this?
That first test of the sucking tube only lasted about ten seconds or so. When I asked how long this would go on for, Yoda said, ‘Long it will take.’
My support crew took it in shifts. Mum and Dad were in from 7 am to 7 pm, and Sparkesy and Aimee did the night shift. Aimee wanted someone to be with me around the clock, because I was getting lost in time. I didn’t know if it was day or night, and with the lack of sleep I was losing perspective on everything. They were worried.
The hospital didn’t explain much to them. As far as the staff were concerned, the lung draining was just part of the process. They’d seen it all before, but my family really struggled with the procedure of getting the water and mucus out of me. They asked Dad to help with the assisted coughing. He pushed hard on my chest – I mean really hard – to help get the gunk out. It wasn’t working. I knew he’d find it difficult, and I said, ‘Dad, you can’t do it. You’re hopeless.’ But I understood. He was convinced he was going to break my ribs. Sparkesy tried too, but he felt the same, so it was left to the nurses.
This went on three times a day for a week. No sedation. Just get in there and do it.
Yoda must have been a physio or OT, because she came back later to work on my muscles and flexibility. I ended up really liking her – but not at first. Every time she turned up I knew what was coming.
Because I wasn’t improving that much, at one point they talked about more surgery, to have chest drains put in, but I didn’t want to go back into surgery. I’d rather do it tough than have drain holes; surgery would open me up to more complications, more delays getting home.
The frustration really got to me when they gave me a spirometer, which you blow into to measure your lung capacity. There’s a bubble in the gauge that rises depending on the force. Using it is the worst feeling because there’s no resistance – you’re blowing against nothing. My reading had to reach a certain level before they’d consider releasing me. The first time I blew, the bubble wouldn’t move. I thought something must have been wrong with the thing, but then Aimee had a go and she got it quite easily. She was super tough on me over the spirometer, because I never wanted to do it. I thought, Man, I’ve been through enough. I hate this shit. I’m never going to get it. It’s a waste of time.
Mum and Dad would let me off, because … well … they’re my parents. But with Aimee, she knew just what to say. ‘Well, do you want to see Bowie? The sooner you do this, the sooner you get to see her.’
That would click me into gear.
Sparkes: I was there a couple of times when they drained Dazza’s lungs. It was horrifying to watch. There were times when you’d wonder if he’d pull through. I spoke to his brother, Dyl, at one stage, in tears – it was after one of those lung drains, watching him struggling while they held him down. It all started to hit home, and I said, ‘I think you’ve got to come over. This is pretty serious. It’s not just that he’s broken his neck. There are serious complications.’
Even though I would change my tone as soon as I went in to see Dazza, I was concerned that he wasn’t going to make it. It was very emotional.
I spoke to Dyl a fair bit, and it was up and down. I rang him the next day, saying, ‘It’s all good.’ Every day was different, especially at the start, and it was a rough ride for all of us.
Everyone on the boat was wondering if we’d made things worse by putting Dazza in that helicopter. I asked the surgeon, ‘Did we contribute to where Dazza is right now?’
I don’t know if he was just being nice, but he said, ‘Look, I think the initial impact did the damage.’ Obviously we didn’t help the cause, but from looking at the X-rays he thought that it was a complete spinal cord injury straightaway.
11
Is this the real thing?
The lung draining was taking its toll. I hadn’t slept for several nights, and the staff decided to give me a sleeping tablet. Not long after taking it, I went into a panic. I started hallucinating, watching in horror as everyone changed into tall Coca-Cola cans, with the ring-pull like one big eye, and the opening like a mouth surrounded by fangs. They had massive horns coming out the top, and I was trying to fight them off.
Aimee and Sparkesy had been expecting a mellow night. The day hadn’t had a lot of dramas; I just wanted help sleeping. They were sitting next to the bed, talking, when all of a sudden I started freaking out every time someone walked into the room. I could talk to my wife and my mate, but whenever anyone else came in I’d lose it, especially the nurse. (There was always one nurse on at night for each room.)
All I could see for what felt like hours were these evil-looking Coke cans, wheeling me round the hospital, experimenting on me, doing all sorts of shit. I was yelling and screaming, calling for help.
While I was out of it, they also brought in a mobile X-ray machine – it must have been something to do with my lungs – and when I saw the lead jacket they use as protection against the radiation, I thought they were trying to put me in a straitjacket so they could lock me in a padded room. I began fighting these Coke cans more and more as they moved towards me. The one nurse there – I could see her face in the Coke can – held me down while everyone else did stuff to me. I screamed, ‘Fuck! Get away! Get out!’
After a while, even Aimee and Sparkesy couldn’t get any sense out of me. This went on all night until eventually I fell into some sort of sleep. The next morning they told me what had happened and I remembered the whole incident. I was glad they’d seen it all too, so I asked, ‘Shit, what was going on with those Coke cans?’
Aimee and Sparkesy looked at me in disbelief. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you see them?’
‘No. You were freaking out.’
Aimee was really worried, convinced that I was losing it for good.
Sparkesy thought about it for a while, because I’d been pretty stable up to that point, and then asked the staff, ‘So, what did you give him last night?’
And they replied, ‘We gave him Stilnox.’
Sparkesy understood straightaway. ‘That’s what’s happened. He hallucinated.’
He’d had his own experience with the stuff.
Sparkes: I remember travelling in Mexico with my friend Steph. We had to take a long bus journey, so when we got on I said, ‘At eleven o’clock I’m going to take two Stilnox.’
I couldn’t wait to pass out. I’d taken them before, but always in the air-conditioned comfort of an aeroplane. Th
is time we were on this ordinary bus, full of people and chickens. I took the pills and fell asleep almost instantly, but all of a sudden I woke up and I looked at Steph. ‘Aaagh!’
She looked like an alien, with almond-shaped black eyes and a big face. When I screamed, the people in front turned around. ‘AAAGH!’ Everyone was an alien. I ran to the front of the bus and the driver stopped. We were somewhere near Acapulco. I got off and looked around at the signs; everything was waving around like grass in a breeze.
The bus driver was cool – we must have stopped for about ten or fifteen minutes. I reckon he was probably thinking, Yeah, I’ve seen these crazy gringos before. Steph threatened to leave me at the side of the road if I didn’t get it together. I got back on the bus and everyone was staring at me. They were still aliens, but I was able to get back to my seat and put my head down.
Every time I whimpered, she’d say, ‘Shut up. Just shut up.’ It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic; she was worried that we were going to get kicked off the bus in the middle of nowhere.
The hallucination and fear lasted for ages, until I finally fell asleep. When I woke up and looked at Steph again, I thought, Nope. She’s still an alien. Go back to sleep. And that’s all I remember.
In the morning, Steph went off at me, and all I could say was, ‘I had no control over it! I’ve had Stilnox before, and it has never done that.’
When I got home I read up about the drug, and there were masses of cases around it. There was one story of a person painting their house in the middle of the night without realising. There was even an instance where a woman had got into her car at night and crashed, and they had put Stilnox down as the cause of death.
That’s why when I found out that Dazza had taken Stilnox, I knew what could be going on.
Once Sparkes had told us his story I felt a bit more at ease – I knew the Coke cans weren’t coming back. I don’t even drink Coke. (I’ve always known it was evil stuff.)
The next day passed peacefully enough, but the following night the same nurse was on duty, and as soon as she walked into my room all the visions started coming back.
I was saying to Aimee, ‘I can’t have her – she’s the ringleader! If you leave they’re going to get me!’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Aimee said. ‘She’s a nurse and she’s here to help.’
When it was time for my meds, I was insistent. ‘Check it, Sparkes. Check it!’ He had to make sure there were no more doses of Stilnox. No-one wanted to go through that again. Still, I was freaking out all through the night. I didn’t sleep one bit. I was trying to keep my wits about me in case the Coke cans came back in.
The same nurse was on duty that night. I don’t know why, but hers was the only face I could still see, so I kept freaking out about it. She was like the devil. I couldn’t relax while she was on; I always kept one eye open.
Dylan rang and I spoke to him for a bit, but it took a lot of effort. I couldn’t hold the phone, so someone had to press it to my ear while I tried to talk. I could still only whisper, and it was hard to hear, so I got really frustrated. Laying on your back, having had neck surgery and the loss of lung capacity, made it exhaustive to talk.
Dyl was living in Queensland, and he wanted to come over, but Mum and Dad were saying, ‘There’s no point. There’s nothing to do here. It’s just a waiting game at the moment. Stay there with your family. We’ll be home soon, and then you can come visit.’
12
Singapore routines
The insurance company had organised a hotel for Aimee and the others, then they got an apartment for everyone, but it wasn’t long before Mum got her own one and Aimee moved in.
Sparkes: Daz had got cranky with me earlier in Singapore. I’d said, ‘I’m going to find a hotel,’ and he’d whispered, ‘You’re staying with Aimee.’ I felt that Aimee and his parents had their place, so I would just get my own somewhere. But Daz was very specific: I had to stay with them.
It was funny because we had to split rooms anyway – Rossco snores. I’d sometimes stay up at the hospital until two or three in the morning because I was on the night shift (and I wasn’t sleeping), and then I’d walk back and finally doze off. But then Rossco would have his morning routine, and the next thing I know he’s having his shave in the bathroom right next to my bed.
The walk from the hospital only took about five minutes, but every night it turned into one of those reflective walks, where you think about the day and everything sinks in. Obviously, I didn’t want to show too much emotion in front of Dazza. He had enough to deal with. It was nice to walk along through lush tropical gardens; they helped calm me down. It always felt safe.
I was in a pretty big room with one bed in the middle. The front wall was made up of glass panels and a big sliding door out. That was all I could see for three weeks, so whenever anyone walked past I was checking out who it was. It was something to break up my days otherwise spent looking at a white wall.
I had to wear the BiPAP mask for another seven to ten days. Mum bought a portable DVD player, and I watched films through the mask, even though I couldn’t hear anything. Dad bought a whole bunch of Arsenal DVDs – they couldn’t find many surf movies. Aimee and Sparkesy got bored of them pretty quick. It was 2008, not long after The Invincibles, when Arsenal went through an entire season without losing a match, so there was always that season recap DVD. I got to relive it all. Over and over.
Then one day I was talking with the family, looking out at the sliding doors, when Michael appeared at the doorway.
‘Michael! How’s it going?’ I was still thinking he was the hero; even though things didn’t go to plan, he had still played a big part in getting me to help. But I could instantly feel this hostile energy from around me – especially from Sparkes – which made me feel very confused.
Sparkes had told my family exactly what had happened – the call back to the boat, the delays, being lost in the jungle. I didn’t know the full story at that stage, about Michael never having intended to fly straight to Padang. Sparkes hadn’t spoken to me about it, and it hadn’t come up in conversation because we were all focussed on what I needed to do to get back home. But I could feel the tension. I was talking to him, but I was thinking, Come on, guys. You should be happy and celebrating. This guy’s a hero. I sensed that something wasn’t right.
Michael could feel it too, I could see by the look on his face, and he didn’t stay for long.
My outlook at the time was that it didn’t matter how he had got me to Jakarta. If it hadn’t been for Michael, what were my other options? He didn’t have to do it. When we first called him, he could’ve said, ‘Look, sorry. I can’t come.’ Even though I’d had my frustrating moments with Michael, I accepted that the whole day had been a fly-by-your seat ride, and decisions were being made as they popped up – some good, some bad.
Still, tensions were high – everyone on the boat, and not just Sparkes, thought things could’ve been handled better. A lot better.
After Michael had left, Sparkes filled me in on a couple of details and why everyone thought Michael was a cowboy.
Sometime during that first week, and this was before Facebook, my story had got out. I always used to watch the top stories whenever the news was on. It was a bit of a joke between Aimee and me, that I always had to watch the top stories.
One day Aimee came to the hospital and, with a big grin on her face, said, ‘Guess what? You’re in the news. In fact, you’re the top story!’ My story had made it home, and I was on all the regional news programs. ‘You’ve made it!’ She laughed, because she knew that would make me laugh.
In the meantime, as the word spread to all my friends, people started faxing messages through to the hospital. As the faxes came in, the guys put them all over the walls and they ended up covering the whole room. The messages were constant, to the point where the hospital staff came and said, ‘You’ve got to ask people to stop sending them. It’s clogging up our fax machine and we’re not getting our medic
al reports through.’ Randy, one of my good mates, wrote a poem, which was one of the most special messages I received. It was about this one place we used to love surfing together, about getting me back in the water with him there one day.
But I remember one message most of all.
Mick Fanning had just won the world title in Brazil, and there was this unreal photo of him on the beach with hundreds of people, carrying him after the final siren. He’d been through his own troubles with his brother dying in a car accident. Then, a year before my accident, he’d had a horrific injury in Indo himself that tore his ham-string off the bone and threatened to cut his career short. But he still ended up getting to the top again and winning the title the following year. In the photo, he’s pointing to the sky, and there’s a bolt of lightning touching his finger. (His nickname is White Lightning.) It resonated with me; it felt like exactly what I needed – a bolt of lightning to jump-start my body into action.
I asked Aimee to move the clock, which was dead centre above the door, and put the Fanning picture up there. I know Mick, having met him when he was a grommet, and there was a connection with Azza, being one of his good mates, so it was pretty cool having that as a source of inspiration if I ever felt like giving up.
I stared at that photo every day, thinking, That’s what I’ve got to get. I’ve got to get that spark.
Adam Sharp, who was managing Rip Curl back at home, is a good mate, and he got in touch with their guys in Singapore to send some clothes for everyone who had come over from Australia – the air-conditioning in the hospital was freezing cold. And, being Mick’s sponsor, they were the ones who’d brought the picture.
It was around then that I spoke to the first person outside my family (other than Sparkesy), and it was my good mate Steve Conti. I could still only whisper, but it was great to hear one of my old mates from when I was young. We just talked about general shit, but he got off the phone and said to his wife that he had to do something. Other friends and family were feeling helpless as well.
Owen and Eleanor Make Things Up Page 9